


One, Or The Other

by Caffiend



Category: British Actor RPF, Crimson Peak (2015), Crimson Peak (2015) RPF, Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Only Lovers Left Alive (2013) RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom, Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: #metoo movement, Ambition, BDSM, Blood, Blood Drinking, Call me master, Captive, Cruelty, Dom/sub, F/M, Forced Breeding, Forced Pregnancy, Ghosts, Hair Kink, Halloween legends, Haunted House, Hollywood assholes, Kidnapping, Multi, Pregnancy Kink, Restless spirits, Revenge, Sexual Harrassment, Terror, Threesome, Vampires, Violence, Voice Kink, all hallow's eve, call me Daddy, call me sir, cheesy cable tv shows, corporeal spirits, fake ghost hunters, greed - Freeform, saving the world or destroying it, under seige, vampire kink, victorian kink, zombie kind of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-03 21:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiend/pseuds/Caffiend
Summary: Acclaimed documentary director Morgan Lafayette finds herself in a career slump and forced to direct and produce the painfully false "Ghost Detective" series with the square jawed and doltish Dean Strong. Trying to find even a smidge of authenticity, Morgan researches the most visually terrifying spots in England and selects Crimson Peak, a rundown estate that will at least, she feels, provide compelling images and a dark, ominous feel. She finds that coming to Crimson Peak was a terrible, terrible idea.





	1. It's Much Too Late To Say No.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misreall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misreall/gifts).



> This is for my beloved misreall, who wanted me to write something truly horrifying for Halloween, based on what she claims are my "gifts for the grotesque and macabre" as seen in my various "High Rise" stories. I'll do my best. This is turning into more than one or two chapters... in my standard method of tales spiraling horribly out of control.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan discovers keeping her self-respect in Hollywood is an exercise in futility. And that beautiful dangerous dreams aren’t always just dreams.
> 
>  
> 
> "Trigger warnings for non consensual activity, violence and excessive, excessive profanity. Though if you’ve ever read a single sentence of mine none of this will surprise you:”

All she needed was a second chance.

Just one, slightly reputable opportunity to show she was still a good director with a keen eye for the unusual. Instead, Morgan Lafayette found herself resting her chin on her camera tripod and trying not to pick up a rock and throw it at the square-jawed countenance of her "star."

"And another dark chapter comes to a close," Dean Strong intoned at the camera, giving the lens what he thought was a look of seething intensity, "at the haunted hacienda of Jose Perez, lost in legend forever... to the-" and here, Dean leaned forward, forgetting that it sent him out of focus, " _Chupacabra_." Straightening up, he looked pleased and barked, "CUT!"

"Dean," sighed Morgan, rubbing her forehead, "I'm the one who closes the shot, remember?"

He winked. The idiot actually _winked_ at her as he said, “My show, my rules, honey.”

 

“You _had_ to say no.”

Morgan was in her (rather nice) hotel bathroom and lecturing herself in the bathroom mirror, the little tiled space was still steamy from her shower, but she didn’t bother to wipe the mirror clean. Why bother? She would only be irritated by the look of defeat she’d be wearing. "Sure, that nasty old motherfucker should be torn apart by a pack of rabid pit bulls. Sure, he deserves to die. But would it have killed you to manage to forget 15 goddamn minutes of your life? Just... say _yes_ , get it _over_ with and pretend it never happened?" But the woman knew that her world didn't work that way. She worked too hard to get those awards at the Montreal Film Festival for her documentary about refugee families from the Sudan. And that "Most Inspiring Newcomer" nod from Robert Redford at the Sundance Film Festival? He'd leaned in and told her "You have great promise."

Kicking impotently at her opened suitcase when it refused to offer up her sleep shorts, Morgan limped over to the dresser, snarling, "Great promise! Robert fucking Redford said I had great promise! So what if I'd just shut the hell up and let the wet, bulbous lips of JF Kaufman touch mine, really, I've done worse!" Actually, Morgan couldn't think of anything more disgusting she'd ever done, but if she had if she'd just- ugh! "I wouldn't be here in Los Alamos, New Mexico pretending that some mutated goat was eating innocent ranchers. If I'd just let him- Fuck!" Morgan gave a full-body shudder and grabbed a half-full bottle of wine off the bureau and got into bed. There was no way in _hell_ she could have let that creepy douchebag use her and live the rest of her life knowing his shriveled, disgusting tiny penis had been inside her, just to save her job. "You know that vile little fucker has a hideous little weenie, you know it! That's why the son of a bitch has to threaten women into touching it!" But the offers suddenly dried up after blowing off Big Shot Producer Assface, and Morgan was left scrambling. But she wasn't going to fuck someone for a project. To hell with him and his fucking hugely successful asshole production company.

"Of course, now-" Morgan waved her arms dramatically, ignoring the splash of Pinot Grigio on the bedspread, "I'm fucking dealing with Dean Strong, _Ghost Detective_ , which shows self-respect sure as fuck doesn't pay the bills!" Bitterly flipping open her laptop, Morgan's fingers were already dancing. The budget for this idiot show was triple per episode from what she'd spent for her refugee documentary. If she was stuck finishing the season with this moron, she was at least going to pick some genuinely terrifying-looking spots to film. There was no such thing as ghosts. God, any moron with an IQ higher than a Nutter Butter cookie knew _that_. But it was easier to fake it in an unnerving environment. There were some places in England she'd noticed on her last search, one place especially. "Good spooky history, mysterious deaths, an insanely hot Baron Sharpe..." Morgan's hand froze. The enlarged image of the old Sharpe portrait was arresting. Even as a poor-quality photo of the painting, she could see how beautiful the man was- dark, wavy hair over a noble brow and sharp cheekbones. But the eyes... piercing, translucent, and the color of a tidepool she'd played in on the shores of the Mediterranean. Morgan's head tilted, widened eyes following along the lines of the Baron's face. "So beautiful..." she sighed without knowing it. At the same moment, her hand was mechanically saving the location and creating a call sheet, rapidly tapping out the necessary instructions as her blank gaze never left Sir Thomas Sharpe's face.

 

"Where _is_ this fucking place?" Dean shifted on the hard seat of the Land Rover jolting along the muddy road in the English countryside. Admittedly, they'd been driving for three hours and the roads just got worse the further they traveled. 

Flipping through the sheaf of photos she'd been examining, Morgan shrugged. "It's close." Her fingers kept rotating mechanically through the pictures, starting again as she reached the last one.

Dean scowled. "You said that the last time I asked. This goddamn dump isn't even showing up on my GPS!"

"Uh, huh..."

Watching her long fingers perform another round of shuffling the images, the actor frowned. "You've been looking at those same 20 pictures for an hour now, Morgan." No response from the woman, just the 'shirring' sound of the photos flipping again. Finally slapping his hand down on hers, Dean almost cringed at her furious glare.

"We're here!" The driver they'd hired in London sounded deeply relieved. He was crossing through a spindly iron arch reading "Allerdale Hall," the aforementioned building looming above them on the hill before them.

Dean leaned forward. "Look at thaaat," he almost cooed. "Blood red mud, just the way you said, babe! And look at that fucking mausoleum!" Spreading his arms dramatically, he cooed, "Come to Daddy, baby."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Morgan tried to force back her ever-present headache. What was Dean yammering about now?

 

Directing the unloading of the equipment and sending crew members into the building to set up her shots, Morgan worked on autopilot, most of her quick mind still focused on the building itself- how it hovered over them, the blank windows glaring down like eyes. Lifting her camera, she looked through the viewfinder, squeezing off a couple of shots. Moving the lens to the last window on the third floor, she nearly dropped the expensive instrument as the display showed a white face staring back, mouth open wide in a scream of rage. Stepping back hastily and slipping in the scarlet mud, Morgan fell on her ass, yelping and automatically lifting the camera over her head to protect it. Staring up at the window, she could see nothing. Shaking fingers moved to the digital display and frantically moving over the last few images, the woman frowned to see nothing but wavy glass and threadbare curtains looking back at her.

"Uh, Morgan?" It was Steve, her second director, and an unfeasibly patient man. "Can I help you up?"

Suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she was sprawled in this nauseating muck, Morgan nodded. "Yeah, this shit is mostly clay, I swear I can feel it hardening around my ass as we speak." Fortunately, Steve laughed as he hauled her inelegantly to her feet. 

It was a terrible day.

Nothing went the way it should have, Morgan's meticulously detailed notes falling by the wayside with every blown light, the generator choking and dying, and the backup generator refusing to start at all. Two crew members spent the afternoon throwing up uncontrollably and had to be sent back to the little inn they'd booked in the closest town, 10 miles away.

"And that is where the terrifying saga of the Sharpe's decline begins- FUCK!" Dean yelped as the light closest to him shattered in a spray of sparks. "This is bullshit, Morgan!" he yelled, "What the hell is wrong with this dump! That was _glass_ , man! That light blew and I could have been cut by that stuff! That was right by my _face!"_

Ignoring the remaining crew rolling their eyes, Morgan sighed. "We're losing the light anyway. Let's head back and find another rental company that's not sending out World War Two era film equipment." 

To her rising irritation, the woman found the little town's response to the film crew varied between surprise and suspicion when the townsfolk found out where they were filming, to outright hilarity when Dean grandly announced, "I am THE Ghostmaster, baby! I can find a hidden spook within a 50-mile radius!" Shifting uneasily in her chair in the inn's dining room, Morgan watched the waitstaff laugh with a certain guilty amusement at her star's claims.

"Yeh'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to find the spirits at Crimson Peak." 

The giggling shut off like a water faucet at the growled sentence. Looking to her left, Morgan eyed the youngish man, pale, sweaty, feverish looking like he was coming down off something serious and needing another hit like right now-

"Fuckers!" the sweaty lunatic laughed, gripping his drink, "Thinking you got the right to stir shite up? Leavin' us with the mess to clean up when you run your arses screaming back to London and civilization?"

Waving her hand to warn Dean to shut up, Morgan rose carefully from her chair. "We're not like that," she said gently. "If there's something there, we hope to put it to rest." It was essentially the bullshit line Dean used on everyone when exploring a new spot, and she immediately felt like an idiot using it on this obviously ill person, his dirty blond hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes flickered up at hers then, going glassy and unfocused. Grabbing her arm, he yanked her down, whispering into her ear.

"Oh, no darling. There is no rest for the wicked. In fact, we're just getting started." Pulling her arm away, Morgan stumbled back, heart freezing in her chest. It wasn't the sweaty lunatic's voice. It was a deep, rich Voice with a capital "V," enunciated with well-bred confidence of someone expensively educated, but with the knowing tone of one who knew every dirty thing about her.

"Wh- what did you say?" she managed, still staring at his blank eyes, but the young man only shook his head and tittered, finishing his beer.

 

Morgan dreamt that night. Dreams so vivid that even in her sleeping state she begged herself to wake up, wake up and find out what the hell was going _on._ But she didn't.

His back was to her, looking at the window of her room, which was, unfortunately, facing in the direction of Crimson Peak, the slight swell of the estate's land was visible even here. His black hair curled over the collar of his white linen shirt, unbuttoned in front, still tucked into tight leather breeches and tall boots. Morgan was staring at his perfect ass, wondering if this was a nightmare or the best dream she'd had in... ever. When he finally turned to face her, she gasped. It was Him. The Baron and so beautiful, even in the moonlight that washed him out like a watercolor. 

"You're- I- But..." Where had her clever tongue gone, her quick wit? Morgan had coolly interviewed warlords in Khartoum, ignored the semi-automatic weapons pointed at her. She had crouched in refugee camps and played soccer with the children with a ball made of rags. But this man... His Mediterranean eyes were on her now, staring at her carefully, examining her features and smiling in a pleased way, as if he'd been correct all along. His hands rose, long fingers pulling his shirt the rest of the way off. Broad shoulders blocked the moonlight from her, casting his face in shadow.

"Delightful. I am so pleased. Lovely Morgana. As promised."

Morgan gave a full body shudder. It was the Voice. His. Sir Thomas Sharpe's, just as she'd known it would be, even whispered from the lips of that sick young man. It took three tries to force her tongue to form words, and what came out was not what she'd planned to say. "Who? Who promised me?"

He'd walked to the foot of the bed by then, casually shedding his breeches and boots, beautifully, brazenly nude and then suddenly crawling across the bed to her, head dipped low, eyes looking up from under his dark brows. "Morgana. I have forgotten. The moon is full, and so am I. Come into the darkness and be my bride." Sir Thomas Sharpe was leaning over her, arms caging her in and mouth whispering the last into her ear.

Suddenly shivering like she'd been thrown into an icy lake, Morgan shook her head, muttering, "No... no, I don't-" Her hands were against his chest, trying to push this terrifying, stunning man away from her. But he only chuckled, his voice going even deeper with a greedy tone as he leaned even closer, his cool stubbled cheek against her suddenly flushed one.

"Oh, darling... It's much too late to say no."

 

 

 


	2. You Belong To Me, Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan gets the rogering of a lifetime. Dean doesn't get a hot lunch. And lots of people die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Trigger warnings for non consensual activity, violence and excessive, excessive profanity. Though if you’ve ever read a single sentence of mine none of this will surprise you.”

 

 

When Morgan woke with the sun the next morning, her arms were clenched tightly to her chest, she was stiff and still under her mountain of quilts. Looking around the room a little wildly, she relaxed and took a deeper breath when it was clear she was alone.

“Just a dream. Or a nightmare. Jesus, what a fucking dream,” she mumbled, sitting up and swinging her legs over to get out of bed. Which was exactly the moment the entire lower half of her body made itself known. Loudly. Angrily. And in the specific region of her pussy, whimpering plaintively enough to be heard in the next room, surely. “Fuck!” Morgana yelped, then whispered the word again, “Fuck… what happened, what did…” She felt like her insides had been hollowed out, sore and swollen. Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, Morgan gritted her teeth as she walked slowly into the bathroom. Clutching the sheet she dragged off the bed when she realized she was naked, the woman tried to recall her night. She had an ache so high up inside her that it felt more like she’d been assaulted by a baseball bat than a cock. But Morgan doubted such an implement could give her repeated, ruthless orgasms and she knew what the aftermath of a good dicking felt like. God knows she hadn’t felt it very often in experience, but she had a pretty good idea. But... shakily pushing her hair from her face, she tried to remember. The woman looking back at her had her enormous topaz eyes, strange, a pale golden that always led people to ask if she was wearing tinted contact lenses. But Morgan had 20/10 vision and a gaze that found what others didn’t. Her eyes were her most arresting feature and she’d dyed her long hair pitch black to highlight them and her pale skin. Much prettier than the mousy brown hair from her Polish ancestors and fierce, obsessive running and an extremely limited diet sheared off her naturally wide hips and bigger breasts. She was lean, sleek and always so fucking  _hungry_. Her parents shook their heads and offered her more potatoes and sausage when she came home to visit and her two sisters snickered and called her “Morgan the witch. The single witch.” Snorting, the woman bent over, nearly dunking her face under the cold water, the shock feeling good to her shaky nervous system. But when Morgan looked back into her little bathroom mirror, the sheet fell from her clutching fingers.

“Oh.”

Her pale skin was covered. Clearly defined bite marks on her breasts, the indent of the teeth still around her nipples. Finger-shaped bruises on her throat, her arms, ringed like gray handcuffs around her wrists. Red mark from a stubbled chin along the smooth skin of her stomach and protruding hipbones and looking further, carefully widening her stance, Morgan’s lip began trembling like a swooning Victorian maiden. The insides of both her inner thighs looked bludgeoned, marks blooming like dark purple flowers. This wasn’t a night of hot sex. This was storming a fortress, forcing inside and conquering ruthlessly. Conquering her.

it all came back. The beauty of Sir Thomas Sharpe’s pale skin, glowing in the moonlight, stretched over hard, taut muscle and long legs and arms. The wide shoulders and lean waist that Beau Brummell made the ideal of fashionable London. The ‘First Fashionista- they called him - and he could have designed the offensively expensive suits worn by kings and nobleman after the naked splendor of the man above her, pressing her into the soft mattress with the hard angles of his body. His big, rough hands - too rough for a nobleman who would have despised any kind of labor- stroked lightly over her face and lips, sliding over the lines of her collarbones and tickling her stiffening nipples before each hand covered a breast, tightening fingers experimentally, cupping and squeezing them, enjoying her gasps and moans. 

“Morgana, lovely,” Thomas purred. “I have traveled centuries to find you. And here you are, my sweet girl. Come home to me.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, cool lips covering hers and smothering her questions. The taste of her... Sharpe groaned in pleasure. She was a ripe apple, crisp and bursting with juice and sliding over his tongue, tasting sweet, tasting alive. Taking one of her shaking hands, he pressed it against his cheek. “Don’t fear me, darling. I will give you everything.”

She wanted to stop him- his cool mouth sliding over her lips, then dipping to her throat, suckling her breasts. Morgan did- she intended to- but this man, this ghost? Whatever Sir Thomas Sharpe was, he was glorious. It had been so long since she'd been with a lover, and they were a pitiful comparison to this... him... The only thing she could stammer was, "Are you a ghost? What  _are_  you?"

Thomas paused for a moment, hovering over her like a dark angel, a malicious smile spread across that damnably handsome face. "Do I feel like a ghost, lovely?" His hand slid along her stomach and through her center, sliding his middle finger inside her. He watched her back arch with amusement as Morgan sucked in a gasp as he idly rotated the finger, then sliding in another to join it. The feel of this girl! Her warmth, her needy cunny sucking his digits tightly. "Does this feel non-corporeal? Like nothing to you?" He felt her fingernails dig into his shoulders when his thumb slid along her wet channel and then gently circle her button. Grinning shamelessly at her flushed face, Thomas purred, "Do you want me to stop, Morgana dearest?" Tapping her pearl sharply, he enjoyed the startled squeeze against his fingers as her thighs tightened to his hips. These modern women, he mused, so strong, though his darling was too thin, too lean. Not for long, however. Twisting his fingers again, Thomas soothed her, "I can stop darling, immediately, if you wish." She made a little whining noise that he found adorable, though he suspected she wasn't aware she had. This heat... Sharpe groaned and dipped his forehead to hers. He could feel his strength return to him with every plunge of his hand inside her, her warmth seeping through the chill of him. He loathed it the most, the cold. The endless, frozen immobility. But each searing breath of hers puffed life into his lungs again. 

Morgan felt his divinely wicked fingers stop inside her and groaned, arching up into the hard planes of his chest. "Don't... I don't care what you are right now, don't stop. God!" She could feel his broad shoulders shaking with laughter but Thomas fastened his mouth over hers, his tongue sliding between her lips and stroking over hers. He breathed in deep as if absorbing her into his lungs, and her moan as she came on his fingers was smothered with his mouth on hers. Releasing a huge gasp of air as he pulled back slightly, the woman felt herself shaking a little. Morgan had an impressive imagination when it came to sex, but putting it to practical use was rare. Simply coming on this dark angel's fingers- and harder than she could ever remember coming- was a shock. As was his mouth nibbling and biting along her breasts, chuckling as she jolted and moaned as he'd give her nipple a sharp bite every now and then. Dazed and still trying to gather what was left of her scattered brain cells into some kind of recognizable pattern, Morgan tentatively slid her fingers into his dark hair, curling it along her fingers. The beautiful specter (demon? ghost? something more?) was placing long, sucking kisses along her stomach and over her thighs, pausing to rub the stubble on his chin along her wet center, easily blocking her when Morgan tried to close her legs.

"No, naughty girl. You must never hide yourself from me. So lovely, this tender cunny, pink and wet..." Thomas attacked her with a certain greedy relish as if intent on eating her- literally. There were tugs from teeth fastened to her swollen lips, a filthy, open-mouthed kiss over her clitoris and then suddenly, Morgan nearly shrieked as an impossibly long, grave-cold tongue pushed into and up her channel. The realization pierced her lust-fogged brain that something supernatural was indeed, feasting on her, that slithering tongue thrusting inside her and the weight of him was pinning her down with her legs shoved back to her shoulders.  

"Wh- wait!" Her head was thrown back, and Morgan could feel sparks that struck like lightning against her spine telling her another orgasm from this nightmare creature was roaring through her and hitting about... now. "Ah..." she half whispered, "I..." That tongue inside her, Sharpe's frightening and talented organ writhed along her channel like a snake, an image that horrified her and Morgan tried to close her legs again even while she was coming. A cruel stroke from the tip of his unnatural muscle swept across a spot high inside her, and she moaned out, "Wait! Thomas please-" She'd never felt so separated from herself- her consciousness aware and terrified of this spirit even while her body writhed and came for him again, like a mindless animal, a thrall. When Sharpe raised his face to see her crying, he moved upwards, purring soothing-sounding things as Morgan felt the weight of his cock settle against her belly. She shuddered as that tongue came out again, looking innocent and quite human as he licked the tears off her face.

With an elegant shift of his hips, Sir Thomas Sharpe's cock was placed at her entrance and he held her face tenderly between his hands, forcing her to look at him. "For centuries, I have dreamt of this, longed for you, Morgana. No tears. This is where you belong. Under me, taking my cock." Thrusting forward, he enjoyed the shocked widening of those golden eyes, bottomless pools of amber. He'd dreamt of her eyes for countless eons, waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for the moment he would see them stare into his. Their children, perhaps with her golden eyes and his height. Powerful beyond reckoning. But first, he thought with a spreading smile, he would enjoy their mother-to-be. Immensely. So with the first hard thrust, he felt his hip bones strike against the soft flesh of her inner thighs, enjoying the sound mixing so sweetly with her moan. 

No matter how cold or strange Sir Thomas Sharpe's tongue had been his cock was _warm_. Almost hot in fact and the sudden contrast from his previous invasion made Morgan's cunt convulse against his shaft. With a seductive, purring chuckle, he pulled slowly from her, then slamming back in, enjoyed her half shriek, cut off by the next thrust. He was everywhere, she thought blindly, surrounding her smaller form with long arms and legs, greedy mouth on hers, cutting off her moans and gasps, his cock inside her relentlessly spreading her channel and rolling the silky, heated tip against the top of her, only to withdraw slowly, tauntingly and then shoving back into her. The combination didn't give Morgan a chance to think, to brace herself, nothing but hold on to him like a life raft, even though he was the one drowning her. She couldn't breathe, panting helplessly as she felt the last orgasm of the night slam through her with another unholy thrust. "Oh, my god! Oh, T..." 

That beautiful face was frozen into a pleasurable grimace as Thomas threw his head back, every muscle turned to iron as he released inside her. The heat poured from him, coating and filling her channel and seeping between them. His tight ass flexed against her heels as he shoved in and out unsteadily, two, three times more, making sure he gave this exquisite vessel everything inside him. He growled, more like a wolf than human, and when he opened his eyes to find her terrified ones wide and watching him, Sharpe winked. With her last bit of oxygen, Morgan shrieked and writhed, trying to dislodge his cock, still wedged deep inside her. His eyes were obsidian. Blank, reflectionless. As the blackness started seeping in from the corners of her vision like ink through water, she heard him whisper into her ear. "You belong to me, now."

 

Blinking as she found herself still standing in front of the little bathroom mirror, Morgan tried to stop shaking. Drawing a bath with the hottest water she could coax from the rattling old pipes, she submerged herself, scrubbing herself with her comforting peppermint soap, over and over until her skin was bright red and nearly abraded. Cleaned, lotioned and her irritatingly thick mass of hair blow-dried and under control, the director looked at herself sternly again. "Who are you?" Morgan inquired coldly, crisply. She re-set herself every day this way, forcing herself back into the controlled, authoritative Morgan Lafayette and not that girl from Cheektowaga, New York. She was in charge here, goddamnit. She wasn't deluded enough to doubt that something happened last night, and if it wasn't for those startlingly clear memories and the road map of bites and bruises across her body, the women would have tried to continue pretending it was just a dream. But Morgan always forced herself to examine every shot, every frame of her life- good and bad- and accept her reality. "Something happened," she muttered, pulling her hair into a high ponytail and yanking black riding boots over her heavy tan leggings and pulling on a dark green cashmere turtleneck, covering the evidence. "If it weren't for the obvious-" she adjusted the turtleneck a little higher- "I'd think someone was fucking with me. The most elaborate prank on the planet. Maybe that asshole Dean. But he'd never be bright enough to pull this off. This is real. There are ghosts. And I just fucked one." Morgan almost burst into laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of her little pep talk, but a knock on her door stopped her.

"Uh, Morgan?" it was Steve, "The crew's just loading gear, do you want to grab some breakfast before we go?" He stepped back and smiled as Morgan opened the door, looking beautiful and staring at him levelly.

"No, I'm not hungry..." the vision of Sharpe feasting on her pussy the night before made her throat close and she shuddered. "I'll get something from Craft Services later."

"Yeah, that..." Steve was following her down the tiny hallway. "No one's willing to cater onsite. But the kitchen did pack us boxed lunches. Dean's going to shit himself," he added gloomily, "you know how he is about his hot meals, no sandwiches."

Unreasonably cheered by the vision of their star's petulant, disappointed face, Morgan smiled. This was going to be a day when Things Got Done. Just... as soon as she went back to retrieve her phone from her room. "Get everyone in the trucks," she said, "I'll be right there." Of course, she'd forgotten to plug her phone into the charger the night before. Morgan frowned at the black screen. Any working professional in Hollywood kept their phone in hand 24 hours a day. She was sure she'd charged it... With a sigh, she leaned over to grab the portable charging device, pausing for a moment as her hand hovered over the pillow. The pillow next to her side of the bed, an indent from her head still marking which one belonged to her. There was a ring lying there. Ugly, vulgarly large and inset with huge rubies, so dark as to be almost purple. Morgan was struck with an almost overwhelming desire to slip it on her finger. "Yeah, fuck that," she said defiantly to the empty room, "you don't tell me what to do." Still, she shoved the ring into her jacket pocket, resolving to research it later. It occurred to her that she was really taking this whole "ghostly fuckery" thing pretty calmly. Feeling a bit cheered by the realization, Morgan strode in her best "I'm in charge here" march to the filming caravan.

 

Looking back on the day later, Morgan did have to admit, Things Got Done. The trucks slipped in the thick, soggy clay, tires spinning and spraying mud everywhere. Crimson Peak was prepared to be just as welcoming the second day as the first. Which was to say, not in the slightest. Ignoring Dean's complaints about his boots- "These fuckers cost me $3,000, Morgan! Three grand and now they're covered with this red shit and hell! And yeah, it didn't even rain last night so why is it so fucking muddy?" She walked into the house again, craning her neck to look at the massive hole in the roof, Morgan defiantly raised her Arri Alexa, filming the damage and following the slow drip on to the marble entryway. 

"I know you're watching, Thomas," she said calmly. "I'm sure you've been looking forward to me cowering and wailing, maybe running my chickenshit ass back to the states? I don't want to seem rude, but-" seeing a flicker of movement up on the second story walkway, Morgan hastily re-aimed the camera, grateful for the autofocus as the image sharpened in her display. "I don't scare that easily. In fact..." carefully stepping over the loose floorboards oozing bloody-looking clay, Morgan swept the camera back and forth, looking for movement. For him. "So far this has been a screen treatment of the most predictable horror story ever. The malfunctioning equipment? The scary, ghostly face in the window? Seriously-" Morgan laughed breathlessly, angling to catch the light through the filthy stained-glass skylight, "-I know you've been dead a while, but even in the Victorian era you had scary shit to draw on- Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein?_ Hello? You're going to have to up your game, though I have to admit the sex last night was, wow, it was-"

"MOOORGAAAAAN!" There was something about hearing a man scream that made it that much more terrifying.

Clutching the Arri Alexa like she would rescuing a baby from a burning building, Morgan sprinted out the door, only to skid to a stop on the stone entryway. The ground was... eating her crew. Dean had been the one screaming like a buggered peacock, clutching a pillar and staring out at the men, his crew and co-workers, the only people who could put up with his shit, sinking into the mud, flailing and howling and trying to grasp at anything solid enough to pull them to safety. Gently placing the camera on the stone, Morgan yanked off her jacket, a heavy duster she'd had for years that was indestructible. Tying herself to the porch, she waded out into the mud, yanking on the first crew member she could see and hauling against the sucking clay. "Dean!" she yelled over her shoulder, "Get over here and help me! Hurry! At least use your belt do something, you stupid motherfucker!" Because it seemed clear Dean had no intention of listening to her. He was pulling at his hair and babbling, watching the wet soil squelch and cling to the writhing men.

The mud, that blood red mud was alive, he knew it. It was forming arms and heads and he thought he could see a face in one Thing but they were all surrounding the six crewmembers and dragging them under. "I thought- you know I thought quicksand was going to be a much bigger problem when I was a kid, all those fucking Westerns my Dad watched," he babbled, "I've never seen a fucking patch of quicksand as an adult but I sure as hell remember to get on a solid surface oh FUCK WHAT IS THAT?"

Morgan looked up from the desperate face of the cameraman she was trying to haul to safety. Her strong legs were slipping and pushing futilely against the unstable ground and she started crab-walking backward, still clutching the poor man. It was a woman. Well, the figure of a woman, rising from the mud, sheets of it sloughing off her to reveal the perfect form in Victorian dress with hands folded demurely. Her head turned slowly to regard Morgan and the mud Thing’s mouth opened in a high-pitched scream. The shapes of bloody clay began bubbling towards Morgan.

"Oh, god, Miles hold onto me!" she gasped, "Grab, grab Steve's hand I'll pull you both out don't-" Looking down, she realized the merlot-colored... Things had taken Steve and the hand and elbow she was clutching were all that was left of Miles still above ground. "DEAN fucking help me!" she screamed. But the asshole was still huddled by the house and Morgan braced her feet and yanked harder, feeling like she might have dislocated her shoulder. 

"You can save him."

Morgan started crying a little. It was Thomas, his sonorous, exquisite voice just over her shoulder. "Thomas? Please help me. Please?"

She felt his hand stroke along her cheek, "I will. I can save him. Just put the ring on your finger, lovely. Then everything will be all right." She could feel the reassuring solidness of him behind her, an arm wrapped around her waist and keeping the whatever the fuck they were Things from yanking her off the stone entry. Morgan couldn't see him, but she could feel his cool breath on her neck. An invisible hand raised the hideous ruby ring from her jacket pocket, holding it in front of her. The women made of the wet, deadly earth of Crimson Peak let out an enraged shriek that nearly exploded Morgan's eardrums, her fury was obvious and she moved faster towards the mansion, sliding slickly towards them with a nauseating squelch. "Hurry, darling." Sharpe's voice was still calm, but there was a measured urgency to it. "She controls the earth, but I can save him."

Sobbing, she let go of the slack elbow of her crew member, still clinging to his hand with her right as the ring slipped smoothly over the third finger on her left. It was cold and heavy, weighing her down. Long fingers wrapped around her wrist and shook her hand at the woman made of mud, who with another shattering shriek, abruptly dropped into a huge puddle again. The arms around Morgan loosened and she felt Thomas leave her, too. Looking down, she started sobbing as she realized Miles was gone. Buried under the murderous, monstrous clay. "You said you would save them!" she screamed, "You promised!"

 

 


	3. You've Started Without Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan discovers that Sharpe's version of keeping a promise is quite different than hers. And that lust can make even the most powerful ghost impatient.
> 
> Trigger warnings for non consensual activity, violence and excessive, excessive profanity. Though if you’ve ever read a single sentence of mine none of this will surprise you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for my friends who came along for this story! I love Thomas Sharpe so very much, but the poor man has been tortured by the House, Lucille and his faltering conscience for far too long. I wanted a Sharpe who was far past remorse, and gleefully embracing sex and his power over others.

Morgan stood, fists clenched and weeping angrily as she stared at the treacherously still earth, no disruption, no sign that the men and women she'd worked with for such long hours had ever existed. Patient, friendly Steve, who'd always tried to smooth issues over between her and their idiot star...

Speaking of the idiot star...

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!" Morgan screamed into Dean's tearful, frightened face, shoving him so hard he fell back through the giant front doors and landed on to the marble entryway with an undignified thump. "How could you just stand there, you asshole! How could-"

Dean scrambled up and away from her, bristling indignantly. "I was saving my own LIFE, that's what! Sometimes... Sometimes you have to put on your own oxygen mask before you can help others! Every flight attendant will tell you that!"

Morgan's jaw dropped. "That... That actually makes no sense in this context at all, you moron!"

His eyes slitted and mean, Dean hissed, "Oh yeah, _Margaret_ _Kolowski_? Is that how you get it done in Cheektowaga, you big fucking intellectual? News flash! I'm alive! So I'm doing something right!"

Flushing, Morgan raised one dark brow, sneered, "I don't know, _Marvin Figge_ , is that how they make it happen in Grand fucking Rapids? Because-"

"This has grown tiresome."

Both their heads shot up to see Thomas lounging against the second story banister, arms and booted legs crossed and a look of bored haughtier on his beautiful face. 

"You!" Morgan grabbed the first thing she could find- a heavy camera battery- and threw it at him with all her strength. It crashed futilely against the stairwell and she looked around for something else to hurl at him. "You son of a bitch! You fucking liar! You said you'd save them! If I just- if I just-" she began yanking at the ostentatious ring on her finger, trying to get it off. 

"You will not remove it, darling." Thomas straightened and began gracefully descending the rickety staircase. "You are mine. The vow is spoken."

Dean was staring at Thomas as if- well, as if he'd truly seen a spirit, an apparition. For the first time in his 10-season farcical ghost hunting series, he was finally seeing the real thing. He was slack-jawed, a look of doltish adoration of his face. "You're real? Holy shit, man- that's- that's so cool, you're-"

Thomas ignored him, smiling benignly on the enraged women still looking for another heavy item to hurl at the monster who'd destroyed everything she’d worked for- everyone in her little universe in one afternoon. "Morgana, darling... There will be no more of this childish behavior. It is time for you to accept who you are." A shadow swept across his face as she ignored him, trying to find something heavy or sharp or jagged enough to hurt this monster- this murderous- In a moment, he was in front of her, his alarmingly tall body blocking her from moving away, blocking even the fading afternoon light from reaching her. His resonant voice deepened, freezing Morgan in place. "Son of a bitch I may be, little girl..." his snarl was guttural, like a wolf's and it made the screaming fight between her and the cowardly shit-for-brains Dean sound more like two parakeets screeching over the last of the birdseed. "But I am your master. And you will obey me."

Abandoning her search for a suitable bludgeon, Morgan settled for her fists, slamming against his chest, one even making contact with that perfect cheekbone of his. 'Fuck ten years of jujitsu,' she thought bitterly, as the blow didn't even make the specter Sharpe move an inch from where he towered over her. But his mouth tightened and his huge, rough hands slid up her arms to grasp her painfully tight and lift her level with him, his burning gaze meeting her alarmed one. 

"That will merit punishment," Thomas snarled, "but let it not be said that I am a man who does not keep my word-“

"You aren't!" Morgan hissed, kicking futilely in mid-air and cursing her short ancestors. "You promised you would save them! They're all dead- this shitty heap of mud _ate_ them! How could-" 

Dean was oblivious, creeping closer and trying to keep his shaking hands stable enough to sneak some photos on his iPhone, cursing under his breath when he realized it was dead. "H- how long have you been here, man? I mean, Mr- uh- Baron Sharpe, I mean, can you move around or what?" The other two ignored him, still locked in their staring match.

"I said, darling, that I would save _him_ ," Thomas clarified with some amusement, inclining his head toward a gaping Dean. "Only because I thought you might enjoy finishing him yourself. Such worthless flesh."

"Hey, man!" protested Dean, "What the fuck?" Anything he might have added was cut off with a quick gesture from the hand of the Ghost Sharpe, quick like a blade and leaving the man gagging as if he'd been punched in the throat.

Morgan was still writhing like a demented eel, trying to free herself. "Finish him? Unlike you," she hissed, "I'm not a murderer. Now get away from me. We're getting out of here, you fucking monster! And you can't-"

"What the fuck do you mean finish me?" Dean croaked desperately, "I can make you a star, dude!" His sales pitch was abruptly cut short by the resounding "Crack!" of wood from the banister as a heavy post broke loose and fell on the aggrieved ghost hunter, crushing his skull.

"Such a fool," Sharpe shrugged, an insincere sort of apology, "I could not tolerate another moment of his bleating." Looking down at his beloved's face, he was mildly surprised to see her lovely face twisted with shock and disgust. "Don't be cross, darling. I did intend to give you the honors, but-"

"Everything you touch, you turn to shit!" Morgan tried kicking him again, but even her hard-soled riding boots didn't seem to make an impact. "There's no one left but me, you evil fuck! So go ahead, give it your best shot because I swear to GOD, I'm burning this dump down to ash!" She couldn't tell if it was the mention of the Almighty (though she'd frankly doubted His existence after ten years in Hollywood) or the mention of torching Crimson Peak, but Thomas snarled, the terrifying wolf-noise again and threw her brutally over his shoulder, cutting off any further threats as his hard shoulder knocked the air right out of the woman's lungs, leaving Morgan wheezing and gasping for air as he loped easily up the vast staircase.

 

Morgan Lafayette (aka Margaret Kolowski) was not a woman who frightened easily. It had been “Kill or be killed-“ at least metaphorically- since she’d graduated from film school. But there was no precedent for this- for Sir Thomas Sharpe who may be a ghost but certainly felt quite real as he strode into a huge bedroom, seated himself on the bed and threw her over his lap in a dizzyingly short period of time, not even allowing her to pull a full gasp of air back into her empty lungs before he yanked down her leggings and ripped her undies free from her body. The first, thunderous slap across her bottom made Morgan first stiffen violently, every muscle turned to concrete and then let loose a shocked and pained scream. It felt as if he’d laid a burning log across her ass. 

"Count each strike, and apologize." Thomas's voice was iron, indifferent and for a dazed moment, Morgan found herself desperately missing the soothing, erotic seduction of his tone before. But she was Morgan Lafayette, goddamnit and-

"AH! Stop!" Sharpe laid three vicious strikes across her ass in a matter of seconds, and her breath was hitching again.

"Count." His voice was frigid, and Thomas's heavy forearm slammed down on her lower back to hold her in place. "Beg my forgiveness."

"Fuck YOU, psycho! AH!! THOMAS STOP!" Morgan started sobbing again, infuriated and humiliated beyond reason. She'd broken her femur in two places jumping off a shed in her best friend Joeseph Batansku's backyard and didn't shed a tear, which made everyone at the ER certain that the then eight-year-old was in shock. But even then she was angry and stubborn. So why would a fucking spanking make her cry like a little bitch?

"Count." His beautiful voice was cold and remorseless. "Beg my forgiveness."

Morgan was tough, but the immortal Sir Thomas Sharpe was relentless. And he had all the time in the world to bring his darling to heel. So eventually, when the delicate skin of her bottom was nearly purple, the woman finally gritted out, "Th- th- thirty. I beg your forgiveness."

"Master," prompted Thomas, which set off another battle of wills.

Finally, Morgan's entire bottom half was in such a state of agony that it took her several minutes to finally gasp, "Please Thomas- uh- M- m- goddamnit! MASTER, I BEG YOUR FORGIVENESS!"

"Fifty-seven," the monster purred, nuzzling Morgan's wet cheeks and smoothing his hand through her hair. 

Her chest hitched pitifully, but she finally wept in defeat. "Fifty-seven MasterIbegyourforgiveness!"

There was a pause. Morgan could feel his hand hovering above her tortured ass, but then it was laid on her skin in the gentlest of movements, the cold touch of the spirit comforting her abraided skin. And then she felt his even chillier mouth, tongue and wet lips lightly tracing comforting trails across her bottom and then her spine, Morgan began crying harder then, knowing somehow she was no longer Hollywood Director In Control. Her dazed golden stare went to the vile ring weighing heavily on her left hand as her tormentor laid her stomach first on the dusty bed, then hovered over her. 

"My sweet, good girl," Thomas purred soothingly, “angel mine. I have you." Feeling his calloused grasp on her hips, raising them to meet the curve of his pelvis, Morgan involuntarily moaned. Just the crisp curls of hair surrounding that overly generous cock of his hurt against her bruised lower half. "Shhhh..." Sharpe soothed, "your master will make it all better. Be still, baby." The first, firm press of his cock inside her still-sore channel made her flailing hand grasp the headboard, staring at the ugly carved figures of cherubs and demons, their grins mocking her arousal. 

"Oh. No..." Morgan groaned, how could this monster- this murderer be making her wet? Every pass of that heavy shaft was pulling more slick from her, making his next thrust easier, driving it higher inside her.

Thomas bent closer, resting his hard, frigid chest against her blazing skin. "Yes, my angel. Your body knows me. It needs me, just  as your spirit will soon." He chuckled when he felt the stubborn creature shake her head. Sliding her clit between two long fingers, Thomas harshly bracketed the painfully sensitive flesh, feeling her head fall back against his chest with a gasp. "Come for me. Give me what belongs to me, lovely. I will have it from you now."

Morgan was shaking violently. From the pain left from spanking her ass raw, from her humiliated submission, and now from her desperate need to come. Even if what was left of her higher understanding was screaming at her to refuse. "Oh..."

She felt the curve of his grin against her throat. "Yes, such a good girl. Give in now. Give it to me." 

And dragged kicking and screaming into the hardest orgasm of her life, Morgan did. And then another one against his cruel, pulling fingers. And then for a third time as her terrifying captor stiffened above her and shuddered into his own finish, flooding her with heat and wet, collapsing above her and driving Morgan's battered body into the mattress. 

Thomas was kissing Morgan's neck, her shoulders and murmuring about how very lovely she was- how good- when they heard him.

A deep voice. Precise. Sonorous. Like how a panther would sound if given a human's speech. 

"Brother. I see you’ve started without me. I am deeply disappointed."

 

 


	4. Daddy Is So Pleased With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan finds herself bound to yet another determined suitor.
> 
> Thank you the clever Ray Of Dawn for the description regarding topaz eyes and their meaning. She put it so much more eloquently that I could have.

When Morgan woke, she turned her head slightly to find it was resting on a hard thigh clad in tight leather pants. It wasn’t Thomas... she knew that much by instinct. The villainous Sir Sharpe smelled of an arousing tang of salt and earth. This one... whoever he was... under the scent of leather lay a mix of copper and mint. Still half asleep, she pushed at her leg-pillow. “Who’re... who’re you?” She cringed to hear the soft tone that displayed vulnerability, not her firm “I’m in charge, asshole,” professional voice.

”Sweetling...” It was the panther voice again, a lethality barely contained. “How do you feel? I fear you have been used rather harshly, darling girl.” His cool hand was stroking her cheek, and for half a second, Morgan relaxed into it before stiffening.

”So you’re my intermittent reinforcement?” Morgan asked, forcing herself to remain detached. She wasn’t falling for this shit. Whoever this was called her captor “Brother.” He wasn’t here to apologize and wisk her back to civilization. Sitting up and carefully pushing back her hair from her face, she was shocked enough to gape like a simpleton at her new ‘body pillow.’

This was so fucking unfair. 

The new arrival was just as unreasonably beautiful as Thomas. Same long, lean body, same long black hair- though this one’s was straight and a little matted. Just as pale and languidly perfect. But his irises were nearly black, only a thin circle of sapphire to indicate he was pretending to be human. His face could have been Sharpe’s, identical, but he had a more modern sense to him. Still timeless, but an understanding and a feel of this century that Thomas did not have. And clearly enjoying her detailed scrutiny, as he smiled in an utterly lascivious manner.

”I am Adam, darling. Your second. Your next. Your forever.”

Shaking her head briskly, Morgan began backing away. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope! Not happening. What, are you Sharpe’s twin? Jesus, there’s two of you? What the actual fuck!”

This one didn’t seem unduly upset by her frantic profanity, smiling as his black gaze traveled over her in an obscene way. “How do you feel, sweetling?”

Frowning, Morgan paused. “Um...” Actually, she felt great. Like she’d had a full night’s sleep, a good breakfast, and a spectacular run. “Good?”

Her new, beautiful monster laughed, rising gracefully from the bed to stalk her easily, gliding along in a sinuous way that told  Morgan he was quite used to bringing down his prey. “I should hope better than good, Morgana. I have healed you of my brother’s ah... enthusiastic attentions. You must forgive him, you are quite challenging as an exercise in self-control.”

Her quick mind was already rapidly cataloging her physical condition. This hot new psycho with the body of a rock star and the voice of a demon angel was right- she felt freaking amazing. “Why?” Morgan questioned, “Why do I feel so good?”

Adam stretched out one pale hand, running his thumb lightly over her lips. "I fed you. You were quite bruised and battered, little one." 

Morgan wanted to slap his hand away from her face, but she wasn't sure that would be a wise move, given that he seemed like he was in a sharing mood and she might get some answers. Shaping her words precisely, trying to keep her composure, she asked, "What did you feed me, Adam?"

He smiled then, more of a leer that showed two sharp canines. "Myself. My blood can heal. Give new life." Enjoying her sudden owl-like widened eyes, he bent closer, about to kiss her until Morgan scampered backward. 

She gave a choked sort of chuckle. "A vampire. Why not? I mean, why the hell not since I've already met your incubus buddy and some batshit crazy mud lady, and the front yard ate my-" Morgan's voice broke but she continued, "ate my crew. So why not? Any werewolves?" She looked up to see he was regarding her with a certain languid compassion.

"Don't be ridiculous, darling. This isn't a 'Twilight' novel." Her instant look of disgust made the vampire laugh out loud, for perhaps the first time in a century.

 

They were in the kitchen, Morgan couldn't tell how long she'd been unconscious, but the sickle moon was high in the sky. Her next shock in a long line of nerve-shredding moments had been descending the grand staircase to an entry that was... well, grand. Beyond grand- the soaring three-story entry looked as if the builders have just left- the painters having barely finished the last of the elaborate detailing. The ceiling was perfectly intact, rich tapestries and furnishings and a roaring fire in the massive fireplace showing the regal beginnings of the Sharpe's deadly reign. The kitchen was still shabby and worn, but Adam had laid a plate of food in front of her- rolls and cheese, sliced meats and olives. Pouring her a glass of wine, he smiled lovingly. "Eat, Morgana. You must be famished."

"Aren't you eating?" she asked it without thinking, then went sheet-white when the vampire smiled at her with such a look of voracious promise that she shuddered.

"Not quite yet, sweetling."

His almost-black eyes watched her carefully as Morgan reluctantly began nibbling a bread crust. The whole implication about "Not yet" had effectively killed her appetite, but she was suddenly shaky and knew she needed to stay focused if she was going to get the fuck out of- whatever the fuck this was.

"So, what the fuck is this?"

'Smooth, Morgan,' she thought bitterly. 'Really fucking suave.'

Adam leaned back elegantly against the worn chair, the burgundy sheen highlighting the pale beauty of his chest, the vampire still bare aside from those delicious leather pants. "It must be very frightening for you," he mused, "not in control, struggling to anticipate what happens next?" Her chewing slowed, throat convulsively swallowing. He watched as those expressive golden eyes narrowed. "Did you know, Morgana, that those with topaz eyes don't have an exact eye color? It fluctuates between green, blue, grey, hazel and amber, depending on the mood or climate. This is why they’re commonly known as Cat Eyes and yes, they’re usually associated with witches, vampires, and demons."

"Morgan the witch," she remembered her sisters calling her, snickering, "the single witch." Her jaw set. 'No weakness, motherfucker,' she thought coldly, clutching an olive. "Meaning?" she finally managed.

Adam idly ran a cool finger down her cheek. "Meaning you, sweetling, are unique. Precious. We have been searching for you for a very long time."

" _He_ said that- Thomas," Morgan blurted, "for what? Unless you want a well-directed documentary I've got nothing you need."

He laughed, throwing back his beautiful head, that long, pale throat so perfectly exposed. "Your director's eye- it creates more than just film. You will see. But no, there is more that we want from you. So much more."

Morgan's mouth went dry, still full of roast beef but not able to swallow. The vampire no longer looked kind, reassuring. Now, he wore the same look of almost-feral greed that Thomas had as he'd fucked her nearly senseless. "What?" she asked through her half-chewed mouthful.

Now Adam looked ageless. Terrifying. "You will carry a child. My child. Or Thomas's."

The only thing Morgan knew clearly was that the vampire grasped her waist and neck, there was movement around them that she couldn’t track- her gaze was fixed on Adam’s, a silver sheen covering the ebony hue and making him look even more beautiful, more otherworldly. Then she was on her back, a thick fur under her, protecting her from the stone and wood chill of the great hall and warmed by the blaze in the new and perfect fireplace. He peeled the robe from her, positioning her like some luscious sacrifice. Standing over her, his eyes burned like the fire, chilled her like the moon as he peeled those leather pants from his hips, displaying the deep V leading to his cock, which did not disappoint. Heavy and full already, thick and as alabaster as the rest of him.

Trying to force her mouth to work, Morgan managed, “I’m not... I’m not your broodmare. I won’t-“

Adam purred soothingly, the sound vibrating in her chest and sparking a whimper against her will. “You will, my beautiful cat. You will bear me a child. We will be a family.”

”No...” she gritted out, finding that the earlier strength lent by the vampire’s infusion had deserted her, arms heavy and unable to push him away. Adam’s hands spread her knees easily, settling his broad shoulders between her thighs and sliding his long fingers along her center, examining the most delicate and intimate parts of the woman with unabashed appreciation.

“This luscious pussy,” he growled, the guttural rumble vibrating through Morgan’s flesh. “I intend to lick it, fuck it, bite it-“ Adam looked up from his position, resting his chin on her soft patch of curls. “And then breed it.” Before she could pull away, his frigid mouth was on her, and Morgan found her hands in his silky, thick hair as he followed through on the first three of his promises. Eyes filled with tears as she looked up at the moon through the newly restored skylight, she could only pray he would not fulfill the fourth. He chuckled as he moved up her body, licking appreciatively along her ribs, suckling her breasts and then tracing his tongue along the hollows of her collarbones, the dip at the base of her throat. Morgan could see her reflection in the silvered tinge of his eyes as his red lips stretched into a grin. “Impaling you,” Adam groaned, “I vow I will find every possible way, but for our first-“

Morgan let out a shocked half-scream as his cock slid up into her as his teeth cut smoothly through the flesh of her neck. It _hurt_. It hurt so much but then the girth inside her began setting off sparks along her spine, through the sensitive nerve endings inside her as his teeth worried her skin. She could dazedly feel the wet and warmth of her own blood spill down over her left breast as the persuasive stretch and pull of his cock made the same thing happen below. “Adam, I- AH!” An especially hard thrust made her jolt upwards and push harder against his mouth. Somewhere between her desperate attempt to stop him and the realization that an orgasm was tearing through her, Morgan could feel the same surges swelling through his cock, the sudden jolts of warmth in a body long cold. She could feel the warmth of her skin almost burning him where they met and rubbed against each other, the sweet taste of her slick and her blood and how he wanted to absorb her or crawl inside her or-

And then they were coming together, the panther-rumbling of his finish vibrating violently through her bones and the wail tearing from her throat setting Adam’s brain alight. And for one glorious and terrifying moment, Morgan knew what it could feel like to have the half that finally made her whole.

And as she slipped from consciousness, his tender whisper. “Daddy is so pleased with you. My very good, good girl.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, poor Morgan’s dance card is getting a little busy. The origin and intent of these two beautiful, unreasonably determined men... things... explained in the next chapter.


	5. The Wolf and The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan dreams.

Morgan was dreaming.

"The Volkhvy expect more from you, girl." The woman speaking to her was as unpleasant to look at as she was to hear. A pinched, angry face, staring down at the kneeling Morgana, who carefully maintained a blank expression. Even pursing her lips was enough for a beating for her "insolence to the faith." As if simply kneeling on this painfully rough stone floor for a good hour while her fate was discussed was not infuriating enough. With a barely discernible shift to her shoulders, the young priestess adjusted her stance. It wasn't the first time the Head Priestess punished her in such a way for speaking her mind, for questioning lazy or wasteful practices. The other novitiate were from wealthy families, groomed for the honor of the Vedma. Morgana was young, beautiful and incredibly annoying. She first gained the attention of the priests of the Rodnovery forarguing over the sacrifice of her family's entire brood of chickens because they happened to be there when the Priests decided it was time. Instead of instructing the terrified villagers to sacrifice her instead, they took her with them, not even giving Morgana a chance to say goodbye to her family. Not that they were putting up a fuss. They'd never been able to keep that girl's mouth shut. It wasn't the first time she'd attracted unwanted attention to the family by questioning what was clearly- to her- idiotic practices.

"I find her questions... refreshing." It was the compound's new visitor- a priest so powerful that the entire Volkhvy was thrown into hysterics all day before his carriage, pulled by massive black stallions with the requisite glowing red eyes stormed into the courtyard.

The head Priestess was simply writhing with frustration to beat the arrogance and disobedience out of this unwelcome, poor girl- the endless questions she had brought with her to their sacred space. But the man currently ignoring her was Prince Vseslav Briachislavich- next in line for the throne of Polotsk and their most powerful Priest, even if he had to practice in secrecy. His sapphire eyes twinkled down at the kneeling novitiate, refusing to look up and risk another beating.

"Leave us."

"My- my Lord?"  The older woman's fleshy jaw dropped and Morgana smirked in a mean-spirited way, knowing it would kill the head Priestess to know how it nicely highlighted her saggy neck, giving her an impressive turkey wattle. To be sure, it was childish. But there were so few things to entertain her in the compound.

Prince Briachislavich didn't look at the older woman, still staring at the black haired girl at the foot of the altar. "Leave," he said precisely, each letter crisp and leaving no room for further questioning. The head priestess nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to escape the room and the prince crowding her. It was silent then in the darkened chapel and Morgana could hear the measured footsteps of the head of the Rodnoverycircling her where she knelt. "My dear Vještice," his voice was behind her now, speaking almost lovingly as he bent his tall form to tower over her.

Morgana frowned. Vještice? The dragon clan? She was the daughter of a peasant. "My prince?" she inquired politely, "perhaps you have mistaken me for another?" She closed her golden eyes. Damn him, even the Prince's laugh was perfection, warm and rumbling through her, as if she was one of his wolf pups. One rough finger trailed along her cheek as he circled again.

“There is no mistake, _Kochanie,”_ he soothed. “You are the one. I knew it the moment I saw those glorious, golden eyes. You see more than your circle here prefers, do you not?”

The girl was torn. Questioning the sanity of the highest Priest of the Rodnovery seemed like a very bad idea. But allowing him to think she was capable of the kind of magic spawned by the descendants of dragons? Morgana wasn’t certain what kind of punishment awaited failing the expectations of Prince Vseslav, but it was certain to be dire. And lengthy. And leaving her begging for death long before he allowed it. “My prince, I…”

 

He was crouching before her now, head tilted in curiosity and amusement. Running the back of his hand down her cheek, he chuckled. “You know nothing of your sire, do you? The holy father Dabog? Your golden eyes-” Vseslav pulled her to her feet and led her to an ornate mirror. “These eyes, _aniloku_ … the shade of amber hardened for all eternity. These are found only in the Vještice. I am surprised you lasted long enough to be taken here. Usually, the golden-eyes are burned as a sacrifice by the uneducated and fearful.” The prince laughed heartily as he mentioned this and Morgana tried to force a sickly smile. Putting one warm, rough hand on one side of her face and then his other hand on the opposite cheek, he cupped her face gently. 

'Very well,' thought Morgana bravely, 'if he can ogle me, I can do the same.' That was a mistake. The prince towered over her, blocking out the light from the candles and making those eyes of his glow like the sapphire on his signet ring. Vseslav was heaven- broad-shouldered and powerfully built, but graceful, even in his bulky armor. His long black curls swept off his noble brow and touched his shoulders. Then, those long legs fitted in tight leather breeches and boots... Flushing for her impure thoughts, she tried to refocus, because he'd taken advantage of her momentary distraction to run fingers lightly along her collarbones, sweeping along the slightest hint of cleavage in her severe black dress. To the girl's shock, her tightly bound stays seemed to be loosening with the path of his hand and she stepped back, gasping and trying to bring the bodice of her gown back up. "My- my prince," Morgana stepped back anxiously, "I- this is-"

"This," Vseslav crooned, following her with his head lowered as if scenting prey, "is exactly right. As it has been prophesied, as I have been promised. I have waited a very long time to find you, _slodyczka_." There was a wave of darkness that seemed to flow over her and when her sight cleared, a huge bed stood where the altar should have been in the great chapel. There were more candles, dozens of candles sputtering blue and green sparks from the prince's magic.

She was still frozen in place, first, because being ordered to the chapel usually involved a beating for something and this was definitely not a punishment, but also because Morgana would always question everything because she simply couldn't stop herself. "Who?" she blurted, "Who promised me?"

He paused before her, staring down as he removed his armor, then his jerkin and undershirt. Casually stripping off his greaves and cuisse, showing legs more heavily muscled than she expected, patterned with scars. Prince Vseslav stood clad only in those leather breeches, slowly unlacing them. "The moon is full," the edge of the wolf ran under his words now, a growl that rumbled through her spine, making the tiny flames of the candles flicker, "and so am I." His dark head dropped close to hers, his lips moving against her cheek as he murmured the last. "Come into the darkness and be my bride."

Morgan now knew what Morgana persisted in asking then. "Who? Who promised me to you?" The woman sleeping on the thick rug in front of the fireplace whispered the words as Adam and Thomas ceased their conversation to listen. 

The prince shook his head, "Morgana, I have forgotten. It's much too late to say no." And as Vseslav drew her to his chest, he wrapped his arms around her snugly, rocking her a little as he easily stripped her gown from her and put her on the bed, arranging her pale body against the scatter of fur and velvet, spreading her hair around her in a corona of ebony. smiling down into her mesmerized gaze. _"Mały smok_... kiss me."

As her self from centuries before ran her fingers through her priest-prince-lover's black curls, Morgan whispered, "Oczywiście mój wilk."

Looking at each other, Adam's eyes flickered with a moment of resentment before he inclined his head to Thomas and rose, gracefully ascending the massive staircase and leaving them alone.

Morgana/Morgan was no longer certain what century she was in, only that the tall, beautiful man above her was kissing her persuasively, murmuring bits of poetry, snatches of pagan scripture as he moved down to her chest, taking a breast in each big hand and squeezing gently, tucking her stiff little nipples between his fingers and pressing and pulling them as he toyed with her breasts. Morgana felt his teeth against her ribcage as he grinned, feeling her pull on his thick curls again. "I'm sorry, I-" she began, alarmed that she'd angered him. But the man soothed her, brushing his fingers against her anxious mouth as he continued down to nibble and lick along her thighs, gently pushing them apart and nuzzling along the girl's center. Groaning a little, Morgan closed her eyes as he rubbed his stubbled chin gently along her clitoris, and then when his mouth fastened over her in a wide, wicked kiss, digging his rough jaw against her opening. 

When she squealed in shock and overstimulation, he chuckled and drew back a little, rubbing his cheek against the thin skin of her inner thigh and then up her stomach and burying his face between her breasts to kiss them soundly. And then as he raised above her, looking down and smiling tenderly as his cock found her, Morgan wasn't surprised to see it was Thomas pressing inside her, making her legs shake a little with the effort of spreading so far, being forced to make so much room. Sliding his hands under her, he cupped her ass in his large palms and lifted her hips higher to help driving into her to become easier, not as much of a stretch and pull. "There you are, sweet Morgana," he rumbled, the growl of his wolf just under the surface again.

"Mój wilk," she answered, smiling at Thomas for the first time after the day of blood and terror. Sucking in a gasp of air, Morgan felt his cock push harshly against her, burrowing further up and into her, hips moving restlessly back and forth to find more room inside her. 

"Sweetest girl..." Thomas soothed, kissing her and licking and nibbling her mouth, "my bride... mother to my child..." His agile hips began moving back and forth, more aggressively than he intended, but this beautiful, stubborn creature made him forget his control.

Morgan, being Morgan could never shut up. "Adam said the same thing," she blurted, regretting it as Thomas pulled back, his face cold in the moonlight glaring down through the massive stained glass skylight. But naturally, she persisted. "Why? Why do the two of you want to knock me up?"

Feeling a sense of irritation at this infuriating creature, this beautiful woman who was stubborn and brilliant and could never shut _up_ , Thomas growled, trying to rein himself in. Giving an especially harsh thrust, he smiled darkly to hear her gasp and fall silent as his hips began moving faster, sending his cock in and out of her so quickly, so aggressively that she couldn't speak anymore, couldn't ask any questions and could only moan as her hands grasped and slid along the smooth skin of his back, finally digging her heels into his ass and her nails sinking into his shoulders to hold herself steady as Thomas pounded them both into their finish. With a startled yelp, Morgan lost her grip again as he abruptly yanked her upwards, pressing her against his chest as he went back on his heels. The feel of the hard planes of him rubbing against the sensitive skin of her breasts was almost too much- almost too stimulated to bear it. But with one hand under her ass and hoisting her ruthlessly up and down as the other pressed against the small of her back, shoving her bare and sticky clit against the base of his cock, she couldn't think of anything to say, shivering and gasping a little as her devilish lover finally bit into her neck- the other side from Adam's wound fortunately- and not cruelly breaking the skin. More worrying her neck with his teeth as he spurted into her, flooding her channel and groaning, grinding his cock as deeply as he could. Morgan rested her forehead against his shoulder. She was almost there- and unlike the night before where she would have fought to the death to keep from coming, now she welcomed it, hopefully angling against his shaft. Her golden eyes were huge, feeling his cock swell impossibly larger and then with a soundless gasp, tipping over with him when he whispered in his deepest, most feral growl, "Come,  _Mały smok."_

So, Morgan did. Actually doing what she'd been told to for the first time in her adult life. 

 

 

 

Volkhvy - a Slavic class of priests and priestesses who often led rebellions, believed to be descended from the souls of wolves

Rodnovery - the original Slavic pagan faith

Vještice - priests and priestesses believed descended from dragons

Dabog - the "man in black" and feared leader of the dragon sect

 

 _Kochanie -_ darling, sweetheart

 _Mały smok -_ little dragon

Oczywiście mój wilk - of course, my wolf

 _slodyczka -_ my angel

 _aniloku -_ darling, sweetheart

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some fascinating folklore in the "Book of Enoch II" written in Serbian, regarding Slavic witchcraft. Vseslav Briachislavich was the Prince of Polotsk and a secret pagan, one of the heads of their religion until defeated decades later.


	6. Sixty Minute Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morgan learns of Adam’s thousand year search for the Girl In The Picture.

 

It was becoming a habit, Morgan thought blearily, waking to find her head in the leather-clad lap of her second suitor.

 

“What,” she managed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, like a child would, “no past-life regressions with you, Vampire Adam?”

He chuckled, and the sound was more of a purr, from something deeply satisfied, perhaps resting by a fireplace. "I have not found you in the centuries before, my darling. But I have known you. I have looked for you."

Morgan tried to roll away from the warmth of his lap- really, for one of the Undead, the man was as comforting as a hot bath- but found she was too exhausted to do more than make feeble-looking paddling motions with her hands. "Why am I so weak?" she asked sourly, "Did you have a little nip last night? A little something to take the edge off?" Her head jolted, spurring on her headache as Adam laughed above her.

"No, sweetling. I prefer my meals fresh. And conscious," Morgan shuddered a little bit as his deep voice dropped into more of a snarl. 

Nervously looking over at the floor to ceiling windows, she was disappointed to see the musty velvet drapes closed tightly. “So  I’m guessing it’s nighttime again?”

Adam arched one perfect black brow, “No, my lovely Morgana, it is early afternoon.”

She frowned, rolling back a little to stare up at him again. “But... you’re awake. Traditional theory would indicate you should be bursting into flames right now?”

The vampire laughed again, the sound made her shiver, like he’d been petting her. In fact, he was, Morgan realized, stroking one long, pale hand through her tangled hair, smoothing it almost absent-mindedly. “I am a very old vampire, sweetling. I do not require much rest, and while direct sunlight could certainly cause me... discomfort... there is little that can kill me.” Motionless and silent, she listened to him. It was a trick Morgan had learned when interviewing exhausted UNICEF workers or a contemptuous Muslim official, disgusted at being asked questions by one so beneath him. Her utter stillness made her disappear, letting them keep talking without realizing she was there. So many interesting things came to light that way. His fingers were gently twirling long strands of her hair as he spoke, staring at the dust motes floating through the room. “More of us... my kind... die from tainted blood these days.” The cerulean shade of his eyes darkened to bitter cobalt. “The strongest, the oldest among us. Writers, artists, men of science. All gone after drinking from zombies desperate to taint themselves with drugs and disease...” Collecting himself, Adam looked back down at her.

”I’m sorry you’ve lost so many loved ones,” Morgan finally offered, “how long... how many centuries have you... uh... been?”

That perfect, red mouth of his quirked, but the vampire answered easily enough. “Close to ten.”

Morgan’s hands fluttered excitedly, “You saw Constantinople... Genghis Khan... the Mongols and the fall of the Jin Dynasty, the-“

She flushed when Adam laughed, but it was not unkind. “Travel was not quite as convenient then, my angel, even for one of my kind. But yes, I stood on those battlefields, walked through the palaces and churches.”

”Who’ve- who’ve you met?” she asked, face lit with excitement and suddenly beautiful, “Galileo, 16th century? Mary, Queen of Scots?”

Adam nodded, still stroking along her skin, toying with her curls. “A ruthless woman, though she loved surrounding herself with beautiful courtiers. And Galileo, considered by all to be quite mad. Many a court intellectual would be humiliated to see his place in history now. However...” the vampire stretched luxuriously, his pale, sculpted body lengthening so beautifully. “I spent some thirty years in the Indian court of the Mughal Emperor Akbar. He supported a huge population of scientists, mathematicians, and astronomers. I suspect some advances attributed to Galileo were actually founded under Akbar’s patronage.”

She was so enthralled that her toes were curling, Morgan realized, but she could barely breathe. A man who’d seen the last thousand years of development, oh, my god! “What about- Did you know William Shakespeare?”

Adam’s smile dropped. “Christopher Marlowe.”

”Get the fuck out!” Morgan almost shrieked with excitement, then dialed it back down instantly when she saw his expression. Tight mouth, furious, dark eyes again. 

“My... wife,” Adam shared coldly, “she was with him when he died, another who fell to the soiled blood.”

” _Wife_?” she stiffened, but there were bigger fish to fry. “Shakesp- Christopher Marlowe was one of you?” At his reluctant nod, she persisted, “How long ago did he die?”

Staring into the fire, the vampire recited tonelessly, “Forty years. Six months. Twelve days.” Collecting himself, Adam looked up, smiling sardonically at her open-mouthed gaze. “Just a year to the day before my wife succumbed to a tainted zombie. She was no longer inclined to be... careful after Marlowe passed. They were quite close.”

”But-“ blurted Morgan, who could never keep her mouth shut, “why wouldn’t she live for you? You have to be the Alpha Male catch of the vampire world, I mean-“ this time, looking at his furious face, she actually shut up.

”We wed in 1178!” Adam thundered, then drew in a deep breath, watching her go still again, barely breathing. “Eve turned me. But as the portraits became more frequent, then the photographs, I could feel her begin to pull away. Marlowe-“ he laughed bitterly, “her beloved Marlowe was the one to give me the last picture of you, just before he died.”

Shaking her head, Morgan’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “What do you mean, a picture of me? I’m 32 years old- that was eight years before I was even-“ Adam’s big palm was suddenly in front of her, holding a beautiful old silver locket. Flipping it open with the practiced fingers of long experience, he showed her the image inside. It was, of course, her. The raven hair, pale face, and sharp features, and the topaz eyes- a color only a skilled artist could paint.

"Where..." Morgan licked her lips, trying to make them form words. "When did you get this?"

He was watching her closely, his beautiful face cold. "From a painter in 1483. A brilliant artist who lived in poverty and never gained the renown he deserved. But when commissioned to paint a portrait of my wife, he created this instead." Adam laughed humorlessly. "It was intended as a surprise for Eve, I never showed it to her, of course. But he was insistent that _this_ was my bride. The mother of my child. I laughed at him, the fool. He did not know what I was, that our kind cannot have children. But he refused to accept this was not so. I took it for the ramblings of a madman..."

Morgan drew up her legs, leaning against the ugly carved headboard. "Why did you keep the locket, then?"

Adam's fist closed over the locket. "At the time, I simply thought it was pretty. Then, I tried to throw it away, give it away. But, I couldn't. I couldn't make my hand let go of it." He looked up at her then, and Morgan's breath caught at how beautiful he was, the sculpted lines of his face, the high cheekbones and strong jaw, the burning intensity of his almost-black eyes. "And then, I received another, a small painting this time from a mystic in Morocco. That was 1614. A pen and ink sketch in 1731 with only your exquisite golden eyes colored in. I began to travel, following stories about women with strange golden eyes- they are more unusual than you might know, Morgana."

"Didn't your wife- didn't Eve question this?" she was confused, Morgan was quite clear that if she was Adam’s wife, she would not appreciate her timeless lover traveling to search for someone else.

His hand wave was dismissive. "Our kind travel pet, we are always restless, even matched pairs do not live together all the time. There were others... for Eve, as well. There was never jealousy about seeking warmth in the arms of another, she was my only, and she knew it." Morgan was beginning to feel uncomfortable stirrings of jealousy, which was, of course, ridiculous.

"She sounds very understanding," she finally offered, trying desperately to keep the snark out of her tone.

She must have succeeded because Adam gave her a slow, voluptuous smile that showed just the tips of his sharp, elongated canines. "It is a different thing than you and I." Absently stroking her arm with the back of his hand, he continued, "A gypsy in the Rajasthan region gave me a picture of you in 1803. Just before photograph images from the camera had been invented in 1826, actually. It was black and white, but again your eyes glowed golden. For this exchange, Eve was present. I explained the series of paintings, drawings and now a photo- that I did not know who you were, but... I _knew_ you."

Morgan spoke slowly. "That must have been... it would be painful for me to discover, how did Eve take it?"

"She loved me," Adam said, brow furrowed. "It was difficult. Eve was my creator as well as my wife. She knew it was possible I would go on without her at some point. But it changed us. Not necessarily for the worse. But different. She traveled more herself, seeking out old friends like Marlowe, spending time in other parts of the world. We would always return to each other, but for shorter periods of time. But I never loved her less." Looking up at her, his beautiful face could have been carved from the same material as the Carrera marble fireplace. “The last photograph as I said came from Marlowe on his deathbed. 'I've been saving this for you,' he told me, 'I did not know the right time, but before I return to the dust seems appropriate.' And he handed me this photo." Adam pulled out a bent and worn picture, wrapped in white paper to protect it.

Unfolding it, Morgan gasped. The photo could have been taken yesterday. She was standing in front of the mansion, holding her Arri Alexa with a speculative look on her face. The expression of a woman Who Did Not Believe In Ghosts.

 

Without quite registering how, Morgan found herself in the monstrously large clawfoot tub in the adjoining bathroom, as old and shabby as it was, she knew it was state of the art when the tub and the hot and cold water pipes were installed. Adam was filling it with warm water, steam rising up into the chilly air as he added something that smelled wonderful, like eucalyptus. Drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, she ignored the vampire's knowing smile. "You must be very sore," he soothed, sliding into the water behind her with barely a ripple, "and filled with questions."

The last was said with a chuckle and she ignored it. Morgan was always full of questions. She wasn't sorry in the slightest. They got her in trouble sometimes... a lot of the time... but she got answers. She sat, thinking furiously as Adam's hands- warmed from the bathwater- stroked the soap up her back, gently pushing her forward as he massaged her back and neck. Hissing with anxiety, she moved away before putting a hand to her throat. The bite marks and broken skin were gone. Looking over her shoulder, she found Adam lounging gracefully against the back of the tub, arms spread and resting on the sides. "How?" she started, then shrugged, "More of your magical healing mojo?"

Adam laughed, and she found herself shivering a little. It was gorgeous, musical. "I spent some forty years in Detroit," he remarked, "in a rundown house amongst many other rundown and abandoned houses. Fewer zombies to bother me." Morgan's eyes narrowed, trying to not make a cranky remark about her kind being called zombies. "I found quite a love for Motown- you know the music style?"

She nodded cautiously. "Diana Ross, Smokey Robinson..."

"Ah, yes." His long fingers were sliding along her back again, observing the bumps and knobs of her spine. This silly thing needed nourishment. A great deal of it. "And Marvin Gaye. You've heard his song, 'Sexual Healing?'" Adam laughed again at her eye roll. Then her breath caught as she felt the thick weight of him between her buttocks, slipping and sliding, nudging up against her suddenly interested clitoris in a slick, smooth way.

”Ooohhh...” It was more a puff of breath than a sigh, but Morgan didn’t pull away when Adam’s hands took her around the waist, moving her along the length of his cock. His hands were hot- weren’t vampires supposed to be cold? His chest was hard against her back, she could feel the slide of his pectorals against her shoulder blades. Then his nose slid along her neck, purring appreciatively at the scent of her. Morgan reached up blindly, feeling the silk of his hair, grasping a handful as his mouth and tongue nibbled the back of her neck. The vampire stretched languorously, like a cat- “-a panther,” she murmured.

Then his hot mouth was against her ear.

 

_Baby now let's get down tonight_

_Baby, I'm hot just like an oven_  
_I need some lovin'_  
_And baby, I can't hold it much longer_  
_It's getting stronger and stronger..._

 

 

Morgan found herself giggling helplessly. A beautiful, dark immortal singing Marvin Gaye? Her giggle cut off into a choke as his strong hands lifted her, feeling the wide head of him nudge her opening. Her head dropped bonelessly back against his shoulder, feeling the painful stretch of him pushing up inside her as he pushed her hips down. So thick! And pulling her open as if he’d never been inside her before, like the two of these monstrous, beautiful creatures hadn’t been fucking her senseless over the last... Morgan’s brow furrowed. How long had she been here, entombed in Allerdale Hall? Adam’s tongue slid slowly, luxuriously up the pulsing artery in her neck, lapping at her skin. His chin rested on her shoulder, long fingers sliding the lips of her cunt open to watch his cock thrust in and out of her. 

“Beautiful girl,” her vampire purred, “Daddy loves the look of your sweet, pink pussy. Delicious, slick...” Adam groaned as he lifted her until the tip of his cock rested at her opening, then grinned at her shriek as he dropped her down. Hard. His long legs slid between hers, spreading them wide and lifting her up as he drove into her. Morgan could vaguely hear the splash on the hexagonal tiles as the water surged over the sides of the tub from the force of him fucking her. His hands seemed everywhere- pinching her nipples, squeezing her breasts, two fingers sliding down to bracket her clitoris and tug sharply, enjoying how she tightened down on his cock, holding him motionless, mid-thrust inside her. It went on forever, the pull and push, driving into her clutching channel as Adam purred and growled filthy endearments in that posh British accent. Finally, he surged up, pushing Morgan’s front against the cool porcelain of the tub and settling her arms to stabilize her before hoisting her hips up to thrust into her harder. “Look pet,” He urged, “look at how irresistible you are, how perfect.” His hand took her chin and turned her head to see them in the old, spotted mirror facing the tub. Adam’s pale skin glowed in the candlelight, and Morgan groaned a little to see the perfect hollow on the side of his ass as he thrust and slid inside her. His hips speeded up, impossibly fast and her vampire began pounding his cock harder and harder until his head tilted back, and Morgan’s moan froze in her throat as his canines lengthened, white and sharp and then- 

 

“OH! Oh, GOD!” Morgan wailed as Adam bit into her as his cock sent a wet surge of heat up her channel as she clamped down against him. The burning in her neck echoed the one inside her cunt and she came again each time he swallowed more of her. She could see in the murky reflection of the mirror that her second lover’s eyes were pitch black.

 

When she came to, they were lying on the thick, fluffy bath mat together. Adam’s hands smoothing a thick vanilla lotion on her breasts and belly. “How do you feel, sweetling?” he asked.

Incongruously, Morgan giggled.

_”Sixty-minute man, sixty-minute man_  
_Look a here girls I'm telling you now_  
_They call me "Lovin' Dan"_  
_I rock 'em, roll 'em all night long_  
_I'm a sixty-minute man...”_

“Billy Ward and his Dominos,” she managed, still giggling a bit. “Fifties pop was pretty good, too.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in our final chapter, we meet Lucille, the Undead Retinue and Morgan must decide which suitor is the father of her child.


	7. One, Or The Other, My Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find that on Halloween night, when the veil is thin between this world and the one beyond, Morgan must make a decision. Accept her past? Or fight against it? Fortunately, this involves a lot of sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter for “One or the Other”, I hope you've enjoyed reading it at least a smidge as much as I've loved writing it.
> 
> For those who have inquired politely (or irritably) about updates to “The Reluctant Bride” and “Sing, Banshee,” I should have new chapters up for both, now that I’ve got this story out of my system. I didn’t quite get it done in time for Halloween, but it’s close-ish, right?

When Morgan finally had enough feeling return to the lower half of her body, she took the hand Adam offered to bring her to her feet, pulling just a bit harder so she fell into his chest. He wrapped his long arms around her for a moment, rocking her gently as he nuzzled into her neck, purring soothingly as she stiffened. "Yeah, you and my neck have spent enough quality time tonight, Vampire Adam." He went still for a moment, and her first thought was, 'Oh, _shit_.'

"What do you call me, my pet?" Adam's voice was calm, but there was a bite to it.

"Uh..." admittedly, she was cock-drunk and a little off her game, cognitive-wise, so Morgan floundered for a moment. "Adam?" She jumped and squealed when he pinched one nipple.

"Try again."

"Well..." his arms were tightening, just enough to make her acutely aware that the creature behind her could snap her like a twig. "I'm sorry, I'm a little woozy and-"

One hand slid into her hair, grabbing a thick chunk of it and yanking her head to expose her neck again. "When you come, my angel, what do I say? Hmmm?"

Morgan began breathing more shallowly, really, this asshole had the wingspan of a bald eagle and he was enclosing her in a very scary way, but it also felt protective, and kind of- 'Shit,' she thought, 'I'm totally getting wet here.' A deep breath from the vampire behind her made it clear he was also noticing this development. Even though she'd had too many orgasms to count over the last few days, Morgan's insides still felt hollowed out, rubbed raw, so perhaps it was self-defense that made her blurt, "Daddy?"

She could feel his chest jolt against her as Adam chuckled. "Good girl." He turned her and gave her a kiss, and when Morgan opened her eyes, they widened in shock.

"Wha- what the hell just happened? I would have noticed a construction crew come in here while we were- uh. You know." The bathroom was magnificent, shining in the way it would have as newly built in the 1700s, but better- with modern touches like sleeker fixtures and no clanky pipes. The tiles glistened and the huge bathroom was scrupulously clean and noticeably absent of dust.

Adam kissed her neck, right where he'd been lightly tapping a fang while she was trying to guess what name he was expecting. "You did, my precious Morgana. I told you- your director's eye, it sees what others do not. You vision creates, just as a director should, just as you did with the great entry hall."

Morgan shook her head blankly. Her director's eye could tell if a long shot of a small village was going to be in focus. Her gaze could seek the one person in a group of refugees who might speak to her. But _redecorating?_

She was sure she'd not said that out loud, but the vampire laughed and gave her a little shake. "You do not think you have lived, died, and been reincarnated all these centuries without containing your own spark? Your own gifts as a mage? This is only the beginning. You can remake our world in the vision you create for it." 

Breaking free from his arms, Morgan felt the first stirrings of panic. "I don't- I can't-" It suddenly occurred to her that she would never go back to her old life. That her crew was dead- horribly dead- and she was responsible, somehow.

With his uncanny ability to grasp what she was thinking, Adam soothed her, petting her hair, her skin as he pulled a long, red robe over her shoulders. "Hush, pet. Calm your heart. There is more to learn." As if to prove his point, a hideous, banshee scream began tearing through the room, rattling the windows and making Morgan shriek and slam her hands over her ears. Frowning, the vampire took her in his arms and they were suddenly on the front entryway, the new granite stairs nearly cracking under the sonic strain. 

Thomas was there, the wind ruffling through his black hair, white shirt half-buttoned and tucked into his breeches. He was standing with legs wide apart, an arrogant pose that seemed to infuriate the mud Things, several who rippled and wavered in the muck of the space between the mansion and the freedom of the gate. And taller than all of them was the Thing shaped like a Victorian lady, her ghastly mouth opened even wider as one dripping arm raised to point at Morgan. "You do not belong here any longer, Lucille." His voice was strong, but there was a hint of sorrow to it. "Your time is over, you must accept it. You must let go."

Over the howling and screeching filling the yard, Morgan managed to yell to Adam, "Who the fuck is Lucille? And why is she a mud Thing?" Whirling to shake her hand- the one wearing Thomas's ring- at the howling pile of bloody clay, Morgan scream, "I haven't forgotten you killed my crew, you fucking bitch! Fuck you and all your fucking mud... uh... fucks! Fuck you ALL!" A wind began tearing through the yard, making the trees groan and the shutters surrounding the huge windows began to creak and loosen ominously. Turning to glare at them, Thomas strode forward to sweep up Morgan and carry her back inside as she continued to scream insults at the howling tower of clay. Adam followed them, shutting the massive doors with an elegant flick of his hands. After the booming sound of them slamming shut, all the noise of the wind and screaming cut off instantly.

Still holding a struggling Morgan, Thomas turned to look at Adam. "Bringing her out to inflame the situation, brother? Unwise." Looking down at the writhing woman in his arms, he sternly said, "Stop." To both her surprise and a bit of his, she did so, still panting in fury.

"Who-" she wheezed angrily, "the fuck is Lucille?" Morgan angrily watched the two men exchange a long glance.

Thomas gently set her on her feet with a sigh but refusing to let go of her. "Lucille is my sister from my last human life. And my lover. And my murderess."

Morgan's mouth gaped open in a guppy-like fashion for a moment before she regained her equilibrium. "Oh- okay. And why is she a mud Bitch and why did she kill all my people?"

 

It was some time later when Thomas finished his story. Of the horrors and abuse of his last life. Of Lucille and their ambition. Of his growing horror and shame, killing his wives for money to rebuild this monstrosity. And how she finally stabbed him to death when he refused to continue. After the explanation about the tea, Morgan looked down at the mug Adam had given her and poured it into a nearby potted plant. She felt vaguely silly when they both looked at her sternly. "Do you think, darling, that we would have gone to this trouble to find you only to murder you?"

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Finish the rest, please. Why did you let your creepy sister murder my people? Why is she losing her shit out in the yard?"

Thomas's beautiful face was somber. "I have been through many reincarnations since we first mated on the altar of the Volkhvy, darling. I lost you- and our unborn child- in an attack from an army of Cossacks. They were sent to take my throne. I was tortured," his voice was emotionless, simply forcing out the painful details, "and executed at the feet of the three heirs of Riurik. It was only in this last release from my human body that I was powerful enough to remain in this form as I waited for you. Adam-" he nodded at the nearly identical man- "found me here, while searching for you." He gave her a deliberate once over, his sapphire gaze cataloging the marks on her neck and the tops of her breasts. Flushing, Morgan pulled the neck of her robe tighter as he growled pleasurably, low in his throat. "We are brothers, he and I," Thomas continued, nodding at Adam, "both our fates entwined in yours."

"Does this have something to do with you both wanting to knock me up?" Morgan frowned, not liking their increasingly intent expressions as they watched her. "Why? What does it do for you?"

Both pale, beautiful faces looked at her with some insult. "You were taken from me, murdered while pregnant with our child," Thomas hissed, "I was bound in magics and silver chains as I watched them cut your throat, your arms reaching for me..." his voice choked and he looked down. "You refused to beg for your life. You spat in the faces of the men holding you. I have sought you since that evil day in 1067, flung back into the cycle of reincarnation, over and over, searching for you in each new body."

"Your will, your strength, your gift of sight," Adam continued, "the child you bear will have all the gifts of his father and mother. Able to walk in the day like his mother, but with all the power of his sire- to form and then dissolve into mist, to control other spirits-" here, he nodded to Thomas. "Or," Adam continued, his nearly black eyes glittering, "To face the sun like you and rule the night, like me. This child is the beginning of a new generation of power against death. Over life. And beginning here this night, when the veil is thinnest between the living and the dead."

Morgan's brow furrowed, trying to remember what the hell the date was. "Oh, are you for real?" she sighed, "It's Halloween, isn't it? I remember thinking that idiot Dean needed to cut a live break for the Discovery Channel..." She stiffened angrily. "None of this explains why the people I care about are dead. Why you've kept me here. Taken away my right to choose."

They both leaned forward with uncanny similarity. "There is no choice, my love." Adam said gravely, "You have been chosen, as have we. The only choice left is for your body to decide which of our seed to accept."

Standing up on shaky legs, she nearly screamed it. "WHO PROMISED ME?"

And together in one voice, they answered, "We have forgotten."

Backing away from them, Morgan ran her hands through her hair, over and over, trying to force herself to make sense of that which was utterly insane. "And what happens to me," she finally asked, "when I've given you this child and I'm no longer useful as your baby mama?"

They looked at each other with that irritating, eerie similarity again. "You become like the sire," Thomas finally answered. 

"What- you mean- shit- like I'm a ghost like you or a vampire like him?" Morgan's hands were gesticulating wildly, not quite sure which direction to point at. "I die, so you get your precious offspring? GODDAMNIT!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, "Men still fucking controlling my fucking fuck, fuck, fuck life! FUCK!!" And she was out the great door, slamming it shut behind her.

 

It occurred to Morgan a moment later that this was ill-advised, given that the front yard was full of the Mud Assholes and crazy Sister Bitch, but they almost seemed preferable at that moment. To her surprise, Lucille was gone, 'maybe squelching around the ornamental lake to look for more fungus and slime,' Morgan thought spitefully. The other Things were simply swaying dully in place, apparently awaiting further orders. But her breath caught in her throat when she saw them, her crew, standing on the lower steps between her and the mud.

"Oh, god!" Morgan sobbed, scampering down the long veranda, "You're here? Are you okay? What happened? What-" She stopped abruptly when she realized they were spirits, shades like Thomas but not as strong, not fully corporeal. "Oh... I'm so sorry." She began crying, barely able to look at them, the guilt burning through her that this was her fucking fault- "I totally fucked this up, guys. I should've known, I should've-"

"You couldn't have known." It was Steve, his face rippling a bit in his effort to smile, and he stepped closer. "You couldn't."

Her hand shook as Morgan reached out, but she managed to take his hand and feel it, a mostly solid shape, the fingers gripping hers. "Steve, I'm sorry. It was such a horrible thing. I pulled as hard as I could, I'm so-."

"You have to stop," Steve said firmly, and the others nodded. "It's okay." He looked a little distant, then came back with an effort. "I don't remember the drowning, it was over so fast and then we could all see each other." His wispy face smiled, "There's so much to see now, you wouldn't believe it."

Morgan wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Do you guys have to... I dunno, do you have to go to the light now? Or something?"

They circled her, each one patting her shoulder, or squeezing her hand to let her know they were there. "Or something," Steve said. His smile stayed on his face, even when he turned to look at the mud Things. "But we're going to wait a while. Wait here and watch out for you. Stand guard while you finish."

"Finish?" she gulped, "What, even you guys know the whole plan? What the hell?"

Steve looked down into her angry face, shaking his head. "I told you, boss. We can see so much more now. Something's coming. And it's not good. This baby- the kid could make the difference for everyone. But it's your choice. They can't make you get pregnant unless you choose."

Morgan absently patted him, feeling his shoulder, the bend in his arm where it nearly disappeared, the ephemeral feel of his shirt. "I don't think you remember your biology classes in junior high, dude. That's not how it works."

He took her hands, holding them still. "It works that way here, boss."

"Steve..." Morgan gulped back her sob, "what do I do?"

The spirit began walking her back up the stairs, pausing by the front door. "You'll choose the right thing. I know you will. You'll see it."

Reaching reluctantly for the iron handle, she forced a ghastly kind of smile. "Don't leave. Uh, don't poof until I can say goodbye, okay?" Morgan was a little embarrassed to see a ripple of laughter went through the misty and solid parts of her friends, but they held steady. Setting her features into her best "Don't fuck with me," expression, Morgan pulled open the door.

 

Morgan was quite clear it was still daytime when she'd spoken with Steve and her Undead Retinue, but once back in the soaring entry hall it was night, the moon shining down through the stained glass skylight. The massive fireplace was roaring, and there were countless amounts of candles, sputtering with the blue and green sparks she remembered from a dream and another life. In front of the fire was a luxurious puddle of silk and cashmere blankets, plump cushions and lounging there, the two beautiful men intent on impregnating her.

Putting her hands on her hips to keep them from shaking, Morgan looked at them both. "All of these centuries, when you were searching for me. You made it sound so romantic, that you searched for _me."_ She pressed a hand to her heart. "Me? Or just the child you both want?"

Thomas stepped forward first, cupping her face in his hands and looking down at her sorrowfully. "No, love. When I found you in that Rodnovery church, I could hardly stop myself from pulling you into my arms and weeping. That silly priestess, hoping I would beat you... When you told me you were carrying my child- I could not imagine any joy greater. Not my throne. Not the Volkhvy. Only us."

Adam came behind her, long arms wrapping around her soothingly in the way Morgan admitted she liked, that made her feel secure. Whispering into her ear after kissing it, he said, "For a thousand years, I searched for you, dreamt of you. But still, I never dared believe you could carry my child. That one such as me could be allowed such a gift. To create life with you... from one who is undead? This is more than a miracle, more than any magic anyone alive or dead can conjure."

She let them hold her for a while, soothing and kissing her, stroking her hair and soft cheeks. Finally, Morgan shook herself. "What is coming?"

Their hands stilled, but neither man pulled away. "Something unspeakable," Thomas said grimly.

Adam, ever the one to smooth away the ugliness, kissed her again. "This is not the time," he said, "no unhappy thoughts tonight. Tomorrow, we will answer every question you have." The skeptical expression he gave Thomas told her they doubted she would ever run out of questions, and somehow, this pleased Morgan immensely.

"All right," she sighed. "What- how are we going to do this?" Thomas took one hand, and Adam took her other, both leading her to the pile of soft fabrics and fur with the dark intent of the fallen angels they were.

It was Adam who spoke first. “I cannot help but notice that you wear Thomas’s mark-“ he lifted her left hand to show the hideous ruby ring transformed into a large square-cut emerald on a platinum band. Morgan gasped, it was perfect. Gorgeous! “-but,” he continued, “you do not wear mine.” He lifted the beautiful silver locket he’d shown her before, and he fastened the chain around her neck. It was snug, the wide, smooth choker fitting against her throat and the locket resting in the hollow between her collar bones. Still behind her, Adam let her look at her reflection a moment before pulling a silky scarf over her eyes, tightening it just enough to completely block her vision. Thomas, who heard her sudden, indrawn breath bent to kiss her lingeringly. "There is nothing to fear, darling. Everything is for you." He began kissing down her neck, one hand in her hair and the other sliding along the soft skin of her stomach.

Adam stepped closer behind her, naked, by the feel of his heated cock against her back and his warm hands. 'Warm hands?' she thought, 'I will never understand a vampire with a sizzling body temperature.' She might be blindfolded, but Morgan knew her men after all these days and nights. Thomas was the one hoarsely promising filthy delights in that deep, expressive voice while his hands pulled hers together behind her back and tied them with another silky bolt of cloth. Adam was barely purring, the low rumble making her bones shake and her skin prickle with goosebumps. He was tickling her throat with just the point of his agile tongue, enjoying how she shivered. When it came time to undress her and help her lie down, one hard chest pressed against her breasts while the other supported her back, the dusting of hair on his skin tickling hers. When the man in front of her slid down to run his tongue along her rapidly dampening center, Morgan tried to close her legs, suddenly shy that they were both there together, watching her. 

"Listen to your Daddy," admonished the voice pressed to her center, lips moving against her pussy and making her moan. "Open your legs like a good girl." Two big hands spread her, and calloused fingertips danced along her clit, toying with it and tickling her delicate parts while the man kissing her mouth leisurely slid his tongue between her lips, toying with her tongue and gently biting down on her lower lip. She moaned a little when he sucked her tongue into his mouth at the same moment her clit was sucked between the lips of the other, and they simultaneously growled and purring, making Morgan break out in goosebumps everywhere.

"Lovely," said the dark voice in her ear, "so very beautiful, your Master is pleased with you, Morgana." One hand spread long fingers around her throat, gently squeezing and releasing as she found herself beginning to move her hips against the sucking, then stabbing tongue playing in her cunt. "Let go now, darling, you must be soft and wet for us." To her shock, the filthy words and that terrifying tongue snaking up her passage made Morgan jolt into an immediate, almost harsh orgasm, feeling the intensity of it clear through her feet, feeling like the energy was poured into the mouth of the man tormenting her clit. Two hands slid under her ass and squeezed, experimentally pulling them apart and sliding his fingers closer to the mouth of the other. Morgan felt herself yanking at the ties binding her wrists, wanting to tear off her blindfold and run her hands through the silky hair falling in her face and trailing along her stomach. This earned her an abrupt transition to her hands suddenly tied above her and hooked to something, and her legs spread and ankles secured far apart, leaving her bare and spread wide open to the two men playing with her. But as four fingers suddenly slid up into her, the burn and stretch nearly made her shriek. "Wait! It hurts-"

"Not for long," the exquisite voice assured her, his tone deep and sinking into her inflamed nerve endings. It took Morgan a moment to realize it was fingers from two different hands, belonging, based on their movement and position on her body to two different men. As the fingers slid and pushed along her passage, it felt like every inch of her was kissed and licked, and underneath the moans and sighs from all of them, there was a low, guttural chant that she knew was affecting her. Morgan couldn't tell how, exactly, only that she felt it under her skin, and her knees fell open further, suddenly loose and heavy. 

It was when they gently turned her on her side again and Morgan felt one lover at her back, the other pressing to her front that she realized their intent. "Th-there's not enough magic in this world to make you both fit in ohmygodsweetbabyjesusandallthesaints!" Two broad, pulsing heads from two thick cocks were pressing up into her passage at the same time. Having had both these men inside her- one at a time of course- Morgan was quite clear about their size and the sheer impossibility of fitting them both inside her at the same time. She would split wide open. But even though it did feel like that, their two shafts pushing alongside each other higher than she imagined a man could be inside her _was_ happening, and it was not painful. Not too painful. Morgan knew that there would always be a moment of burning and stinging, but it was real. They paused at the top of her, everyone's breath coming faster and she could hear by their moans and grunts that they were trying to force themselves into some kind of control again. 

"Are you ready, sweetling?" whispered her Daddy.

"We will be as gentle as we can," promised her Master.

And when Morgan managed to nod, they began, one sliding in as the other pulled out, then continuing back and forth. She was always full, and Morgan was beyond coherent thought. The weight of the shafts inside her, the press of her men in front and in back- she was surrounded in every possible way, even in her mind as they both murmured words of love, bits of Shakespeare- uh, Marlowe- Morgan corrected herself, and the arcane language of a thousand years ago. As she came the first time, screaming in her shock that she could orgasm while stretched in this deliciously obscene way, Adam purred his approval as Thomas growled his. A rush of slick came from her, making Morgan feel like an animal herself, and with increased fervor, the weight and girth inside her slipped and shoved faster and faster until with one final, violent push both men were at the top of her channel, pushing against her cervix. The explosion of heat and wet made Morgan shriek blissfully and come again with them, her rhythmic squeezing making them both roar into another orgasm, which set off another from Morgan. And so it went until everyone felt squeezed dry and they were all held together by slick and sweat and arms and legs wrapped around each other. Drifting off into sleep as she felt four hands care for her, cleaning her and rubbing sore limbs, Morgan heard a final whisper from both. 

"We love you. No matter who is chosen as the Sire, we are your husbands. We will love you forever."

 

Waking the next morning with her head on the lap of her vampire as always, Morgan smiled sleepily to feel Thomas's head on her stomach, his long arms around her waist in sleep. Looking to the window to see the new, sheer curtains blowing out into the room from a light breeze, she hummed happily. A sunny day. The beautiful room around them held the massive, comfortable four poster bed, no ugly, mocking carvings just a rich cherrywood sheen. Brilliantly colored oriental rugs softened the polished wood floors, along with big couches and the beautifully tiled fireplace. Sliding gently from under her men, Morgan winced to feel stings and pulls from every part of her body, but a little deep breathing as she found a robe and pulled it on helped. 'I may as well get used to it,' she thought, both pleased and a little horrified, 'I probably can't give birth to a child of the undead in the maternity ward.' 

Each step she took down the long hallway of the second floor changed the dust and decay to exquisitely painted walls, lush drapes, and lovely furniture. The gray and filth of Crimson Peak dissolved with every new stride, and Morgan smiled a little malevolently as she heard the banshee shriek of Lucille begin again, seeing her precious mansion reborn before her eyes. "Scream all you want, mud Bitch," Morgan called as she opened the front door, "that's the last round of screeching you'll be doing here." She smiled to see her friends- her Undead Retinue still standing sentry where they'd been the night before. "Good morning," she called pleasantly, ignoring the nauseating squelch of Lucille mud form and her Things all eagerly converging up to the steps.

"We see you made your choice," Steve greeted her, squeezing her hand.

Morgan realized his grip wasn't as solid, that it was harder to see their features now, recognize those dear faces. "It was made a thousand years ago, I think," she answered thoughtfully. "But I'm okay with it. This is right. You were right."

Turning to look at the writhing, dripping pile of bloody goo that formed Thomas's dead sister, his murderous lover, Morgan's golden eyes gleamed. "I see you, Lucille," she said calmly. "I see that you no longer exist. You no longer matter. You will never hurt anyone else. I see you becoming... nothing." The shape of Lucille began to bulge and rippled in a nauseating rhythm until, with a final shriek, the clay form exploded, spraying bloody gobbets of filth everywhere, passing through the Undead Retinue. Lucille's mud Things simply collapsed in a nauseating splat and suddenly the front of Crimson Peak was covered with grass and flowers, granite pavers for walkways and a long, curving driveway. The ornamental lake sparkled in the sun as Morgan turned back to see her friends mostly gone, the last of them was Steve, waving goodbye.

The doors opened abruptly and both men stood in the shaded entry. "Sweetling, what are you doing out of our bed?" scolded Adam, worry clear in his voice. Thomas was looking over the new expanse of grass with surprise, searching for signs of his malevolent sibling.

"She's gone," Morgan assured him. "I saw to it." He looked at her, brow raised but with a strange, cautious look of hope.

"You... saw to it," he queried.

"I saw that she no longer existed," she confirmed, "and she didn't. And I said goodbye to my friends." She kept her golden eyes wide, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. It was Adam who saw the moisture first and smiled tenderly, stepping out a bit and raising a hand to her, ignoring how it smoked in the sun.

"Come, our sweet Morgana. You must be starving."

They made her a magnificent breakfast and insisted on Thomas hand-feeding her as she sat on the lap of the vampire, who idly stroked and played with her hair, and then her breasts, and then between her legs until Morgan desperately declared herself no longer hungry.

 

_Nine months later..._

Morgan was rocking on the front porch of the mansion, enjoying the sun. Despite Allerdale Hall residing in a particularly wet and cold corner of England, the sun insisted on shining in a pleasantly blue sky for a good portion of the time in their corner of the county. Resting her hand on her rather large belly, she wondered about the changes in her body. She'd braced for no longer being able to endure the sun or craving blood. But she continued on as often-irritable Morgan, who always had questions about ten centuries of lifetimes to catch up on from both her men. When the contractions started a few minutes later, she groaned and managed to get up and through the front door before collapsing on the granite and marble entryway.

Thomas and Adam carried her to their bed, helping her undress and filling the tub, letting her soak and comfort her, then helping her to bed when she was ready to push. Sliding behind her and propping her up, the vampire kissed her sweaty forehead. "Our beautiful Morgana, so brave." Thomas, who was gently wiping at her expanding channel and massaging her legs, looked up with a diabolical twinkle. "Are you ready darling, to tell us who the father is?"

Teeth clenched, Morgan bent double in pain, "OWWW! DAMNIT! Just help me get these babies out!" 

"Babies?"

"Did you say-"

 

_An hour later..._

"I don't know if it's undead magic mojo," sighed Morgan, who was too tired to even swear, "but I'm so grateful those contractions didn't go any longer. My mother never forgave me for putting her through 36 hours of labor." She opened one eye to see both men ignoring her, too mesmerized by the tender bundles she held, stroking downy skin and feathery patches of hair. "Two sons," Morgan sighed, "one with blue eyes, one with black."

Thomas's usual cool control was gone. "What does this _mean?"_ he marveled, "I don't- there is nothing in the records, the scrolls-"

He smoothed her limp hair off her face as Adam helped her drink some water. Morgan arched her neck to ask for a kiss from them both. "It means," she says, "that I have seen us all walk together in the sunlight. Speak with the spirits. And direct the vampyr to gather together. I've seen it all."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, kudos to my dear Miss Roo for correctly guessing the outcome here in the last chapter.
> 
> Second, I hope you enjoyed the adventures of two of our most beautiful Tom roles that don't often get much play in our community. I'm sorry, I don't see a sequel for this one. But... I pictured a Thanos-type of threat coming for the planet and the resources of their world required to stop him. But, since this is your story as much as mine, "see" your own outcome. And share! I'd love to hear what you've seen for these three. Well, these five.


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